Basketball
by Satan Abraham
Summary: What better to do with troublemakers than to put them all on a basketball team? And have your son be the bookkeeper, of course. Modern day highschool AU. There will probably be slash later on. Rated T for language.
1. Chapter 1

The bell rang and, like almost every day, Art Baker stumbled in two or three minutes late. The History teacher – his official name was Mr. -, but everyone called him The Major – sighed. Baker offered him an apologetic smile. "Sorry… but… I got caught behind everyone else because this is the first class and I was eating breakfast…"

"This is the fourth time this week you've been late. Usually, once someone gets four tardies, they get detention. You've accumulated twenty tardies total this year, and it's October 15th."

"Um…"

The Major sighed and wrote something on a piece of paper. "Come to the gymnasium after school. Cancel all previous appointments."

* * *

In second period history, another opportunity for The Major's plan arose.

Gary Barkovitch was copying down the assignment from the board, trying to ignore Harold Quince pushing on the back of his chair, despite the fact that his ribcage had come into contact with the desk and it was really starting to hurt.

He lasted two more minutes.

Barkovitch slammed down his pencil and turned around. "Okay, Dumbo, _cut it out!"_

"Cut what out?" Quince asked, playing dumb.

"You fucking know what! Stop it!"

Quince was still playing dumb. Before Barkovitch could say more, however, he felt a tap on his shoulder. It was then that he realized that he was, in fact, in class and had just dropped the f-bomb. Some teachers might let you get away with a 'damn' or 'hell' every once in a while, but considering whose class he was in, he wouldn't even get a warning – he'd be straight in detention. If he was lucky. It was actually more likely that he'd get suspended.

He turned around. The Major was just looking at him. Barkovitch grimaced.

"Talk to me after class."

To nobody's surprise, after The Major went back to his desk, Harold Quince continued pushing on Barkovitch's chair.

* * *

Collie Parker hated chicken noodle soup.

Maybe it was the fact that whenever someone in his family blew their nose his mother shoved it down everyone's throat, but he fucking _hated _it. He sure as hell wasn't eating lunch today. He'd have his chocolate milk and apple and dessert, but he wasn't eating this chicken soup.

"What do I do with this shit?" Parker muttered to Abraham, who had just taken a bite of said atrocity. Abe swallowed and glanced around the cafeteria, his gaze landing on the one of the only tables that was not shoved full of kids. It seated that prick Gary Barkovitch and some blond kid – they weren't talking, of course, Barkovitch didn't have any friends and blond kid looked like he didn't like people. Parker grinned. One of the reasons he liked Abraham was his creativity.

"You'll probably get suspended, but, you know. Whatever," Abraham said, shrugging. "There's my voice of reason. Now go."

Parker stood up and, bowl of soup in hand and almost skipped – except he was Collie fucking Parker, he didn't skip – over to Barkovitch. Barkovitch didn't see it coming.

Parker, who had by now garnered quite a bit of attention from surrounding tables, turned over his bowl.

Barkovitch stiffened as the lukewarm soup ran off of his head and onto his shirt. Noodles, mushy vegetables and probably-fake chicken caught in his hair. The entire cafeteria went quiet, and, to no surprise, the teacher that decided to use their authority was The Major.

"Give Mister Barkovitch a new shirt and then come with me."

* * *

Barkovitch was about to grab his bag and go, but then remembered that he needed to go to the gym for some reason. The Major hadn't actually said what they were going to do, but he'd said that he wouldn't get the typical day of in-school suspension that usually came with swearing of that caliber in the middle of class. And Barkovitch had spent enough time in in-school already, so he'd taken it.

Of course, during lunch Parker had dumped soup on his head and he couldn't even retaliate in fear of getting in even more trouble, so he'd had to take the polo Parker had handed him with no comment, even though the sleeves went down to his elbows and the shirt itself went halfway to his knees.

There were five other people in there. The blond kid that often sat at the same table as him during lunch was sitting alone, writing something down in what looked like a scorebook. The ginger that hung around Parker and his (possible) boyfriend were there, as well as two kids he didn't know – one with a scar on his face and one that really had nothing special about him. Barkovitch stood there awkwardly until some shoved him from behind.

"C'mon Barkobitch, don't block the doorway."

Parker. Of course.

The Major walked in at that moment and passed a critical eye over the group. "We're just missing Olson, then," he said. "We'll wait a few more minutes and if he doesn't show up we'll have to start without him."

Thirty seconds later a boy who Barkovitch supposed was Olson walked through the door.

"Now, how many of you were planning on playing basketball this winter?"

Two hands went up – Parker and his ginger friend.

"Forget about it."

Parker, of course, complained. "Look, I've gotta-"

"No. Because you'll be busy," The Major said. He began to pace. "This year, this school and a few others have decided to start doing something new. Each school can use up to seven students – female or male, though this school has gone male – that cause problems of some sort and put them on a basketball team."

Barkovitch was more than a little nervous about this statement. He hadn't touched a basketball since the fourth grade, when he'd decided to play PeeWee basketball and quit the first day.

This was not going to be fun.

* * *

**I have two chapters written on this one as well. My interest in it kind of depleted after I completed watching Kuroko no Basket.**


	2. Chapter 2

Gary Barkovitch was doubled over, breathing hard. Christ, he hated this. It was the first day of 'practice', and apparently that consisted of running until passed out. He wasn't the only one hurting – Olson's face was bright red, though he kept pushing on through everything – but when Barkovitch was running beside Collie Parker, he looked about three times as bad by comparison.

"That's the last of your sprints," The Major said. A half-hearted cheer went up through the seven boys. Stebbins, who seemed to just be at the practices to see who showed up, didn't even glance up from his novel. "Now, go across without your feet touching the floor."

It really was a good thing that he didn't have anything to do after school – he usually ended up going straight home and sitting in his room. Lately he'd been teaching himself to walk on his hands. He could make it across his room, but just barely. He could try?

"How the f- how are we supposed to do that?" Parker asked.

"This is the last thing we're doing today. As soon as you get to the other end of the gymnasium without your feet touching the floor, you can go."

Barkovitch glanced around at the others one more time and went for it. He was used to having carpet under his hands, so he nearly fell, but then gained his balance and began to inch his way forward.

* * *

"Christ," Abraham muttered, watching Barkovitch _walk on his hands across the floor. _There's a straightforward way to get that done.

He glanced around, gaze landing on the bleachers.

Hold on…

He walked over to the bleachers and began to cross the gym on the bleachers. He passed Barkovitch in no time and was out of the gym before anyone could say anything.

He was pretty sure everyone followed his example, because soon enough, Parker, then Baker, then McVries, then the rest of them entered the locker room.

"I didn't know the little shit could do that," Parker mused, staring at the shirt he had in his hand. He apparently decided against putting it on, because he threw it in his bag and changed from shorts to jeans. "It's fuckin' weird. Who the hell has time to learn something like that?"

"He doesn't have any friends," Baker pointed out. "I bet he has lots of time."

"Well it's weird," Parker said, exiting the locker room. "Abe, hurry up if you want a ride home."

"Grab my backpack from my locker!" Abraham yelled after Parker.

* * *

Seven minutes later, Barkovitch entered the locker room. It was completely empty – that was good. To be honest, he'd fallen over more times than he needed to to make sure that he'd be alone in the locker room. Nobody in there liked him anyway, so it was just better to take his time getting there.

"Do you need a ride home?"

Barkovitch jumped and, shirt half-on, half-off, turned to see Stebbins leaning against the wall, watching him. He struggled to get the shirt the rest of the way onto him and thought about it.

"Uh, yeah, probably," he said. Stebbins nodded and opened his book again. Barkovitch had no idea how he could concentrate on reading while standing up – Barkovitch himself couldn't concentrate on reading much more than a chapter at a time, and that was sitting in a room with very few distractions, maybe with some heavy metal music to block out noise – but he was doing it, and at a pretty quick pace, too.

A few minutes later, Barkovitch shouldered his backpack and exited the locker room. Stebbins followed, book disappearing into his coat pocket.

The ride to Barkovitch's house was awkward. Stebbins didn't talk, except to ask where Barkovitch's house was. Barkovitch, who wasn't the best at being social and nice at the same time, concentrated on making it so that Stebbins _wouldn't _want to throw him out of the car and into the traffic.

"You know, you aren't as bad as people make you out to be," Stebbins remarked. Barkovitch paused, hand on the door.

"I just always get off on the wrong foot," Barkovitch said. Stebbins smiled almost dreamily and nodded.

"Yes. I suppose that would be it."

* * *

"A game? What the _fuck _is he thinking?" Parker asked, outraged. They'd had about five practices, they were not ready for a game. Stebbins, who had been the unfortunate bearer of the news, shrugged. "Who's starting?"

"You, Abraham, McVries, Baker, and Olson. You and Abraham are down on post, Olson's point, and the other two-"

"Yeah, yeah, I get that. Olson on point? Well, I guess he's fast… who are we playing?"

"I'm not sure the name of the school, but I'm actually fairly certain it is made up of mostly delinquents. We can't expect very good referees," Stebbins said. Parker snorted, then rolled his eyes as the bell rang.

"Ah, shit, I'm late again."

"Tomorrow night!" Stebbins called after him. He mentally congratulated himself on not dying. Collie Parker was not known for being nice.

* * *

"Tomorrow night I'll be home late," Barkovitch said as he passed his mother, who was beginning to get dinner ready. She looked at him, startled.

"Why?"

"I have to be somewhere."

Now she really had no idea what was going on. It was a little sad, but Barkovitch hadn't gone anywhere after school since he was really little – and practices only went until five, and those two hours could be explained by traffic, so they'd never asked.

"Where are you going? Is it somewhere for school?"

"Sort of…" Barkovitch said, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. "I'll probably be home around eleven. Or something. You can call The Major – er, Mr. —, if you want to know more."

He half-hoped that she wouldn't, but she gestured for him to stand still and got the phone. Barkovitch, who wanted desperately to shower, sighed.

After a brief conversation over the phone, his mother turned to him. "You're on a basketball team…" He nodded. "For kids that cause problems?"

"I… uh…" Barkovitch said, biting his lip. She was waiting for him to explain himself, but he wasn't sure how to say 'people hate me and I retaliate' without actually saying 'people hate me and I retaliate.' "It was kind of…"

"At least you're doing something," she said. Barkovitch blinked. That… wasn't the reaction he'd expected.

* * *

The worst part of having to take the short bus, Collie Parker realized, was the fact that it was one seat short. Everyone seemed to have gotten here before him, and now he had a huge choice beside him.

Abraham was the obvious choice to sit beside, of course, but he was being annoying and stretching his legs across the seat – across the entire aisle, in fact, onto Baker's seat as well. Stebbins did not look approachable.

"Ah, fuck it," Parker muttered. He picked up Barkovitch's bag, threw it at him, and sat down beside him. Barkovitch jumped and glanced over. "Don't even talk."

* * *

**And this is all I have for this one. :) I have been having some sort of inspiration lately, thought, so it may be updated. Sometime.**


End file.
